


Train To Nowhere

by Hirngespinst (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Sherlock is a ghost, prompted by someone else, that can't leave the train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:46:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Hirngespinst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metal on metal, Sherlock didn't only hear but feel the steady movement of the train. It was relaxing, calm, peaceful and so incredibly dull. He was waiting. Waiting for someone who wouldn't return. Not anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train To Nowhere

Sherlock was lonely without John. Of course there were always the smaller crimes in the train going on and of course a few of them appeared to be rather interesting at first. Or his standards had dropped dramatically. The only source for information he had were newspapers left by people and obviously there was never anything interesting in them. The standards of what was considered a "solved crime" were sinking as low as what he considered an "interesting case". Unbelievable.

John started searching after the third week.

Nervous, journalist, hungry, desperately waiting for her first big story. Sherlock was always deducing. If the people just weren't this dull.

Moriarty had been found. Dead, not far away from King's Cross. Suicide apparently. John started to travel by train more.

Artists turned out to be the most interesting. At least the ones who had gone completely insane over their art with the time. Sherlock was able to guess the state of their flats easily after some time and could even say when they would have their next emotional breakdown. If he just knew if he had gotten his right or wrong.   
It was slowly turning autumn. Someone wore two coats at once, someone else wore a single glove. Had humans always been this dull?

Tired after an exhausting day of work, John continued his search for Sherlock. And while he drove up and down the same roads again and again, entering cabin after cabin, he suddenly found himself standing in front of the world's only consulting detective. Cabin 221.  
That sort of irony wasn't even worth laughing about.

Sherlock just stared. Confused, but only for a second. Then happy. No relieved. Then he didn't know what he felt anymore. He only knew that he _felt_. As unbelievable as it sounded to him. "John."

"Sherlock. What are you doing here? Where have you been?"

"I'm dead John."

John stared, unable to believe Sherlock. Of course he couldn't, Sherlock looked exactly the same as always. And sounded the same as always. At least to him.

"I didn't want it to happen. The clue was on the rails, I didn't expect that the train would be there in time."

John slowly nodded, but still didn't believe. Sherlock saw it. No - knew it.

"Why are you here then? Alive?"

"I already told you I'm dead John." Sherlock leaned back, getting ready for a long and wordy explanation around the fact that he didn't know, when John stopped him with the wave of his hand.

"It's alright." Before Sherlock knew what had happened, John's fist had went right through him into the padding behind his head. Now John believed. Definitely. Pale and confused John stumbled a few steps backwards, Sherlock could almost hear the lecture about why he had disappered vanish from John's head.

Then they began talking. Mainly about John's life. Sherlock even asked after a few things. None of them had expected that moment to happen one day. But Sherlock was just so relieved about seeing John again, about having someone see him, about having a real conversation, that he didn't care what he talked about and John was so confused that he forgot about wondering.

After that John drove the route back and forth, informed Sherlock about the newest cases, talked. Made both of their lives (or what was left of them) less dull.

Sherlock had begun to look forward to their meetings on the train more than he wanted to admit. The monotone sound of metal on metal almost sounded like a heartbeat. Sentiment. What was he turning into? Death had made him unexpectedly sentimental, human.

John had missed the train because he had met Mary. Mary. Wonderful Mary, beautiful Mary, charming Mary. They had met at the surgery, talked and talked and talked. After work they had met for a coffee and John had completely forgotten that it was Wednesday. Wednesday Sherlock was waiting for him in cabin 221.

It was one week later that John excused properly. And Sherlock accepted it. Because it was alright, as long as John came again and again and again, told him about everything, tried to relive the old times and talked. As long as there was someone who still saw him, his mind and his deductions. So they talked. About crimes, about life, even about Mary.

Anything as long as his life wouldn't turn dull again. Dull and boring and lifeless like the train.

A year later John missed the train again. His wedding with Mary was very private and only a few people had been invited, very close friends and the nearest family. Harry had been incredibly drunk at the end, but at least she had been sober at the beginning.

Sherlock waited hour by hour. Read the old newspapers in front of him again and again, listened to the two girls in front of them that happily realized again and again where they were. Tedious. Dull. That was exactly why he hated travelling with the train. Where was John?

The next two weeks John wasn't in London. They had taken two weeks free time and went to Paris, enjoyed being with Mary.

Sherlock stopped being patient. He began raging, complained to random passengers, sometimes they heard him, sometimes they didn't. Some even almost saw him. John. He missed John.

When John entered the train after a month of silence, it was to say goodbye.

And still Sherlock waited for him. He waited, feeling the world, the train and the sound of metal on metal. The endless rhythm. The sound that was his death. The sound that was his heartbeat. How dull his life had become.

_\- THE END -_

**Author's Note:**

> And? What do you think? It's the first 'serious' piece of Sherlock-fanfiction I ever did and the idea was prompted by a friend of mine.
> 
> I hope this wasn't disappointing because it's missing the ghost-smut or any other variation of obvious love between Sherlock and John, but it really doesn't fit the mood of the whole ficlet (and I'm not ready to write that).  
> There is also a cover for it, drawn by the same person who made the prompt, I might upload it one day as well...


End file.
